I took the silver watch from my pocket and polished the brass casing with a soft cloth.

The ticking was steady and comforting in the quiet room.

I thought about Julian’s face when he spoke of his daughter.

He was a monster to the rest of the world, but to Emma, he had shown mercy.

The next morning, the winter sky was the color of wet slate.

A heavy snow began to fall, dusting the hemlock trees along the long, winding driveway.

I was up before dawn, helping Margaret dust the long corridors of the south wing.

The rooms were grand, filled with velvet drapes and French antique furniture that smelled of lemon oil.

These were the rooms Vanessa Whitmore had demanded for her stay.

“She wants everything spotless,” Margaret muttered as we polished the vanity.

“And she wants the staff out of sight by the time her car arrives.”

I worked quickly, my hands aching from the cold wax.

By ten o’clock, the main house was prepared.

I ran back across the courtyard to the carriage house to check on Emma.